We Must Die To Become True Human

There Is A King Who Is Aware Of Every Mask You Put On

The Fluteplayer Puts Breath Into A Flute, And Who Makes The Music? Not The Flute. The Fluteplayer!

Come, Come, Whoever You Are. Wanderer, Worshiper, Lover Of Leaving. It Doesn't Matter. Ours Is Not A Caravan Of Despair. Come, Even If You Have Broken Your Vows A Thousand Times. Come, Yet Again, Come, Come.

Wings Of Love Long Only To Fly Away From All Directions.

A Secret Freedom Opens Through A Crevice You Can Barely See.